


Red Scare

by plaisance



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:34:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25203280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plaisance/pseuds/plaisance





	Red Scare

I write this letter in the hopes that, should another with my affliction be discovered, they could know that they were not alone in their suffering.

I had spent the last two months traveling throughout the Orient, collecting specimens of the local plants for my eventual botanical monograph of tropical citruses. I initially found the far eastern cities to be too hot, too crowded, and simply too foreign for my tastes, but exposure to the diverse local cuisine eventually changed my tune. I was particularly fond of dishes prepared with a certain local peppercorn, its flavor managing to be both spicy and numbing at the same time, a curious combination to my New England palate.

Though I was not shy of traveling far afield for my botanical work, my gastronomic journey begun at the port establishments serving comestibles to travelers and longshoremen, catering to more quotidian tastes. Eventually I found the courage to seek recommendations at more local eateries, and my wanderings took me further and further from the well-lit boulevards as I sought ever more sublime tastes.

A sour-looking patron at one of these out-of-the-way taverns noted my unusual appreciation for their local cuisine, and suggested a restaurant further into the hinterlands than I had ever gone. Only an hour's trip, he assured me, but surely worth taking the time to visit. Perhaps he thought that I was an easy mark, and I suppose his assessment was ultimately correct.

The next day, I picked my way down a little-used dirt road and sought the place out. It was apparently at the edge of a run-down mining town, and seemed to have little custom as I entered its dimly lit interior. Despite its shabby appearance, I knew from my past month's experience that often the worse it looked, the better the food, and my anticipation only grew as a listless host guided me to a back room, where I was promptly assaulted with a blackjack and crumpled against the unvarnished floors.

When I regained my senses, I noted that the black-clad host and the rest of the front of house staff had pinned me down and torn my shirt open to expose my chest to the humid air. What had previously passed as a dull, uninterested gaze in their eyes had transformed into something alert and feral, gleaming with predatory desire. This was certainly not the culinary experience I had been expecting, and I knew not what they wanted with me but despite my best efforts thrashing manfully I could not free my limbs from under their doughy bodies.

A man then emerged from another room wearing a white apron and chef's toque. Behind him another pushed a cart with some pungent liquid steaming from an enormous stock pot. The first man drew a large chef's knife and began sliding it across a honing steel, every scrape of the blade increasing my feeling of dread. I screamed a cry of terror as he drove the knife into my belly, at the base of my breastbone, and easily butterflied by torso open with a quick movement of his arm. The saucier hefted his stock pot over my crying, quivering form and poured the chili oil soup into my newly made wound.

I awoke, shivering as I realized I had somehow fallen asleep on the hard floor of my rented room. My mind was still fogged as I contemplated my vivid nightmare. A wave of pain wracked my body as I felt at my chest to ensure that I was still whole. I cried out again as my hand, seemingly burned, felt at the ragged edges of my injury and I knew that this was no dream to be banished at the coming of dawn.

I could see, even in the dim predawn light, that an occult symbol had been carved into my flesh. I stumbled to the washbasin to see what I could repair. I bit back a whimper as I splashed water on myself, and the sharp aroma of chili oil induced a new bout of nausea in my crippled body.

I made another attempt to scrub clean my injury, when I noticed that my flesh felt intact after all. Indeed, under what I thought was chunks of dried blood and torn flesh, my skin was in fact unbroken. What then, had I been feeling and smelling? As the sun crept higher into the sky, I could finally see the truth of what had happened: a profane symbol etched in my body, composed of a foul, spicy chili sauce, somehow both gritty and runny.

Try as I might, I could not remove the obscene decoration with even my most powerful soaps and washcloths. All that I scrubbed away was quickly replaced, seemingly emerging from my own chest and replenishing what had been removed. My frayed thoughts pieced together an entreaty to the Creator, begging Him to remove this blasphemous mark from my flesh.

No divine intervention occurred, however, as I contemplated my next move. But suddenly in a flash of insight, it was so obvious! The only way to remove the chili oil would be to consume it. I dug into my chest as handful after handful of the spicy mix disappeared down my gullet, tears streaming down my face despite my best efforts to keep a determined countenance.

With my body healed, I had thought that I defeated the ritual, and kept this strange occurrence out of mind as I returned to my home shores. But the damage has already been done, and I fear that no amount of time will heal these scars.

The only flavor I can now taste is hot chili oil, as all else is like so much ash and dust in my mouth. My sleep is no longer restful, as dreamless nights have been replaced by a singular vision: myself, standing at the shore of some accursed beach, the salt spray tainted by a now-familiar burning sensation, the whitewash streaked with red. The numbing deepness calls to me, and I do not know how much longer I can resist its siren.


End file.
